Monday Night—William

The police and emergency vehicles were parked in front of the home of Carol and Tom Lowe, a middle-aged couple that had lived in the house next to mine for about three years. Our neighborhood consisted of four- to five-acre lots with large homes. The Lowes' house was situated about two hundred yards from the street, ensconced by a wooded lot. I had a couple of business ventures with Tom in the past and played golf with him fairly often. They often invited me over for dinners, cookouts, neighborhood gatherings, and sometimes just drinks. They apparently felt sympathy for me, a single male.

It was midnight on a Monday in the otherwise sleepy town of Aiken, South Carolina. The moon was full and glowing, competing with the sparkling stars—though the glowing and sparkling were likely due to my Lasik surgery. My future children, if I ever have any, will probably wonder why they're blind as a bat when their old man has twenty-twenty vision. I'll blame it on their mother, if I ever find someone who fits the job description.

I've always been a curious sort, so I threw on jeans, a T-shirt, and my running shoes and headed outside. I saw Ralph and Mary coming across the street. Both were wearing bathrobes. I caught up to them as they started up the neighbor's driveway. Behind us were other neighbors in varied attire.

Ralph said, "Hey, William. Do you know what's going on?"

"I don't have a clue," I responded.

The cops hadn't cordoned off the area yet, so the neighbors and I wandered up the driveway and as close to the Lowes' front door as we dared. A young officer came up to us and said, "Please go back to the street. This is a crime scene."

"What crime?" I asked.

"I can't tell you any details. Please go back to the street."

"Are Carol and Tom okay?"

"As I said, I can't tell you anything. Please move to the street." The polite officer began ushering us down the driveway as more neighbors joined.

Ralph said, "What do you think happened?"

"I don't have a clue. I was at their house last night, and everything was fine."

Crime tape was being put up, and we were about halfway down the long driveway when a black Impala came up and stopped beside our officer. I thought it might be a detective, but it was an attractive woman.

Her voice wasn't as attractive as she said through her open window, "Why aren't these rubbernecking yokels in the street? A good officer would already have these civilians away from the crime scene."

The officer tried to answer, "I'm taking them ..."

The woman didn't give him a chance to finish. "Get them in the street," she said before she continued up the driveway.

I asked the officer, "Who was that?"

"She's a detective from Chicago, helping us out while we're shorthanded."

"What's her name?"

"Jessie. I don't recall her last name."

I turned and walked backward so I could see the Chicago detective get out of her car. She was wearing black jeans, a black shirt, and black boots. Her black hair flowed over her shoulders. Her attitude and demeanor certainly matched her attire. She strode with purpose up to the house.

I asked the officer, "How long has she been in Aiken?"

"She just started a few days ago. She seemed much nicer when I met her at the station."

We all, not to be confused with y'all, waited in the street. More neighbors joined the hoard. The curved driveway to the house was lined with trees, so it was hard to see the front of the house. Thunder and lightning had started in the west, so the gawkers and I would be forced to seek shelter soon.

I saw the Chicago detective marching down the driveway the same time the polite officer saw her. He tensed up as she came close.

I heard a slight Chicago accent as she said to the officer, "Get everyone's name, address, and phone numbers and ask everyone whether they saw any vehicles or persons near the house this evening."

The officer had already been gathering the information and answered, "Yes, ma'am."

I took the opportunity to ask the Chicago detective, "What happened to the Lowes? Are they okay?"

She turned her glare from the officer to me and said, "There's nothing I can tell you." She then turned around and headed back up the driveway. She was a lean woman, about five feet seven or eight, and her gait was athletic with long strides.

The polite officer rolled his eyes as she walked away. He turned to the swarm of yokels and continued to gather personal information and ask if anyone had seen or heard anything during the night. No one had. The neighbors talked about the rain getting closer, so I went for my golf umbrella in my car.

Some of us were still in the street an hour later. That's when we saw the ambulance backing up to the house. The EMTs went inside and brought out a gurney with what looked like a body. Quick as could be, they drove down the driveway past the polite officer and us and headed out of the neighborhood toward town. A second ambulance repeated the process, so there were probably two bodies. The polite officer still didn't give us any explanation of what happened in the house, but by then I figured it was because he didn't know any more than we did. I could only assume that the victims must be Carol and Tom, but it wasn't confirmed yet.

By two o'clock, most of the neighbors had gone home, and the storm had moved in. I was the last to leave.

I'm William Bradford of the Appalachian Bradfords. You can be thankful to us for the lights in your home and the juice for your electronic toys. We Bradfords aren't the ones who own the utility company—probably aren't even shareholders—but are the ones who get the coal out of the ground for the power plants. We've been coal miners for generations.

I spent my share of time in the coal mines while I was in college getting my engineering degree. Each summer starting after high school and one Christmas holiday break, I labored in the mines. Using a sledge hammer. Busting rock. Working on the ventilation crews. Operating a belt head. Drilling for methane gas. Cleaning belt sections. It was an experience that all teenagers and students needed to have, if anything so they could feel what it's like to hear the rats scurrying in pitch darkness. Actually, I've seen pitch, and the mines were darker than pitch.

Our part of the Bradford clan was led by a hardworking father, George William Bradford—hence the William for me—and a mother, Maxine, who demanded all of us kids work hard. Children were the source of free labor on farms and businesses in that bygone America, and my family consisted of four sons and one daughter. I'm the youngest.

My childhood and teenage years in the heart of Appalachia involved building houses, remodeling houses, building barns, building outhouses including outdoor toilets, sharecropping, farming, and taking care of the livestock. The garden was massive, with enough vegetables for a whole year. Canning the crops happened all summer long. Mother did let us sleep and go to school. It was very gracious of her. Mother and Dad were religious, so Sundays involved only minimal chores. Sundays were also for pickup football or basketball games or swimming in the river. A favorite was riding in the river in a rooftop cut off a junk car.

Thanks to our mother, all the Bradford children are hardworking and successful adults. I'm thirty-two now, haven't found the perfect mate,...